Como é possível que a “maior nação cristã” do planeta não entenda sobre compaixão, empatia e perdão? Simples: porque o último cristão, morreu na cruz. 😔 Continue reading Empatia

How good you read these wordsJoining letter after letterPhrase after phraseUntil it starts making some sense.But how good have you been able to readThe one writing these words?Alas! For your misfortuneIf you were to ever make any effortOr even dare to make an attemptIn understanding me through my wordsThen be warnedFor words are my camouflageBehind which I hide myself.It will be too lowly of meIf I had to depend upon wordsFor you to penetrate deep inside my soul… ❤ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Letter after letter

In the hush of dusk, a plea whispered softly in the breeze, “Untie me…” A yearning, aching melody that echoes through the chambers of the heart. With each step, a delicate dance through the tapestry of seasons, I seek solace in the rustling of autumn leaves, the tender embrace of springtime fields. Each raindrop a caress, a reminder of your touch that lingers on my skin. Words caught in my throat like thorns, suffocating the unsaid truths that beg to be released. My gaze, veiled from the world outside, seeking solace in the shelter of your eyes that hold the … Continue reading Let me forget my sorrows

Tell me when it gets better, whisper it softly in my ear like a promise of tomorrow’s sunrise. Ask me about the dreamer that died, the one who dared to chase after the stars and got lost in the vast expanse of the universe. Give me a reason to not get comfortable in this skin, to keep pushing against the boundaries that confine me. Show me the silver lining, even if it’s just a faint glimmer in the darkest of nights. Remind me about the goodness in people, the kindness that still lingers in the world despite all the darkness. … Continue reading Tell me …

I am a different person today, with flowers sewn into my hair and tiny ladybugs drinking my skin. I have freed the petals that have grown in my ribcage, so that others can smell the beauty of my tales. Wearing full on my lips to excavate my syllables on a descendant of my vowels. I whisper tiny lullabies to the ancient ruins of a once scattered soul and dance tiny steps to the music I keep deep down in my veins for subtle charm. I am a vision of a lonely wild only when the moon shouts from its lungs, … Continue reading I will not be sad…

The night does not fall asleepin the eyes of womenthe female moon, similar to ours,in vigil attentive watches overour memory. The night does not fall asleepin the eyes of womenthere are more eyes than sleepwhere suspended tearsbreak the lapseof our wet memories…❤️🙏🏾 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Night

I love bluntly, for pleasure, union of the vertebrae, conjunction of the knees, saucy, beautifully, overdose of courage and for not having judgment, lack of occupation, longing, rules. I love the looks, the moonlight, the taste of the kiss, the naughty smiles, joy without reason and feet off the ground. I love the feeling of belonging to my love, by the cold in the hands, shivering legs, goosebumps at the back of the neck. I also love because loving gives me thousands of butterflies in my stomach. I love the absence of theories to love. I love because I get … Continue reading I love …

I’ve learned, that no one’s really got the answers when it comes to life matters, only acquired beliefs.I’ve learned, that it is most beneficial if I’m able to change my mind, when presented with new evidence, or a better way of doing things.I’ve learned, not to hold onto grudges, so that my hands are not too full to catch blessings.I’ve learned, to like people for who they are, because I stopped expecting them to be perfect…and to like myself for the same reason.I’ve learned, that happiness doesn’t come from gaining something, but from gradually letting go of accumulated darkness.I’ve learned, … Continue reading I have learned …

Certas vezes escrevo para ver concretamente o que não pode ser dito. Seja o que for, isto sempre pode ser escrito. Mesmo à sombra da perseguição ou patrulha moral, surge na página o vil, o medonho, o sádico, o pornográfico, o fornicador e todo indistinto conteúdo do dentro. Algo tão grande que impele as linhas e tão modesto que sucumbe à moral popular, tecido morto… Não há moral na tinta da página. Nada além de tinta flutuando em branco. Aqui sodomizo a moral sem que ela possa ao menos apoiar-se em seus quatro cascos. Aqui tomo todas as formas que … Continue reading Escrever

The poet’s words linger like whispers of a secret shared only between kindred spirits. Each syllable, each verse, carries the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions, woven delicately into a tapestry of dreams. His lovers, not of flesh and bone, but of ink and parchment, dance in the ethereal realm of his creation. They are the embodiment of his deepest desires, his fears, his hopes — all pregnant with dreams waiting to be birthed into the world. With pen in hand, he breathes life into their existence, shaping their essence with the stroke of his quill. In the poet’s embrace, … Continue reading These are the words of the poet, his lovers: all pregnant with dreams …